Big Boys Don't Cry

Real men never, ever cry. Over anything. Not even a death in the family, not a bullet in the chest. Full stop. Case closed. You may mist up slightly in one eye only when a favourite sports legend retires, but real, macho men know just how bad life is. Real men grit their teeth and take bill after bill, war after war.

And I am all that!

I never cry. It takes a lot for me to shed a tear of two. Yes, I have a heart made of moon rock. I couldn't even remember when was the last time I did. Probably a decade ago, when I had to be consoled by my little sister when we both watched Mufasa died in The Lion King. But again, whoever, rock-hearted monster wouldnt't right?

I take pride to know I can stand tall and proud among the real, legendary alpha males; in the company of Genghis Khan, William 'Braveheart' Wallace or Sir Elton John.

So I repeat, I never cry!

But, this week, I guess I kinda broke somekind of a new record. At least in the Macho-dom. I CRIED. Gulp! Not once. Not twice. But THREE times! Over what, you may ask? Getting tetanus shot? a chipped finger nail? another lion died?! Nope. Nope. Nope. I say you won't believe this.



See, I told you, you wouldn't believe it.

It was all started when my former boss recommended this book to me (now I blame her). At first I was hesitated, cause, you know, it's essentially a love story. Something that didn't bore too well with me. The stinking cheese of that Twilight craps still linger with me that I swore never to touch any so-called 'love story/chick flicks' by any female author again...urghhh. I could die of hydration due to non-stop vomitting!

Anyhow, I made a mistake (after much coaxing) of reading the few first pages of the book. And what a big mistake it was. The book turned out to be a total unputdownable, so to speak. The next thing I know, I got this watery substance rolling down my cheeks. Damn.

It's a story about a man who time travels. The only thing that hold his life together is a woman whom he always come back to, the love of his life, throughout her existence. He met her when she was six and he was 42 and their 'life' keeps on intertwining (time-traveling-ly-speaking) since then.

Sounds like the most romantic thing you ever heard huh? The only catch is, he can't control where or when he'll be gone. So most of the times, the girl is left alone in the present, pining for her man to come around, not knowing he's in fact, always there for her somewhere, someplace, in other period of her life. A little confusing but powerfully heartbreaking stuff.

OK I cried THREE times somewhere between page one and the last page. That was a little twice as many I cried for the past ten years.

I have proven myself to be the wimp by admitting this. Or maybe machismo is simply an overrated thing, I really don't know. It is a very slippery thing. It's hard to live by the old macho code these days. Blame it on the Beckhams or the Eltons but today's men, would even cry for a pair of shoes or....God, help us all...a book!

Oh world, hear me now, and chant this loudly with me;

I am a real man. Big, sweaty, meat-eating ignorant man. I have large packages. And balls. Made of brass and metal. Well, I used to have them anyway. Now I want them back.

We want them back, do we?

Man, I pine for the sheer stupidity of the old macho days.